I
thought to joy those eyes, this rubescent swan, this invested mother: our cries
as silenced, our wounds as vocal, where it feels superb our angular disguises:
to love as heathens, attempting closure, while, nonetheless, recruiting
damages: this pagan psych, this rubric therapeutic, or this island psych: our
Jewish alarms, our insignia charms, or this disgruntle feeling: while caged by
feelings, at terrors such emotion, to fear this mirror climbing into living
rooms: our broken spirits, our lively spirits, to analyze this irrefutable
human: our mystic gazes, this playful spike, as arouses our notions by
forgiveness: at lakes grieving, at our Exchange pleading, or more to eyes this
woman correcting every sentence: as asked a question, this churn of phrases, to
meet this self-acclaimed Instructor: if but by romance, as chanced a fool,
while a bit teary by pedantic(s).
I
adore this swan, I take interests with futures, and I crave as one feeling
reputes: those fragile glasses, this interior ceiling, or bent to graves, this
luxurious mistake: as fractured living wholeness, or captured feeling freedom,
to sense our mothers a tear eager for existence: our steaks with greens, our
links with cheese, or this miraculous pot of mystery meats: whereto, this ugly
insistence, our women sipping vinegar, where reality stipples this gorgeous
reflection: to die by centimeters, or to live by kilometers, where anger pushes
for zillion dollar insurance: our brains for roses, our roses for petals, at
something too pure to become human: those flying frenzies, this attic clock, or
cellars too explosive to claim sobriety.
I
love for dying, I flee for returning, I purified something unholy: our raided
embrace, this flower speaking Swahili, or this reality in Africa: our sullen
agonies, our gracious casualties, where this lady has outlined causality: as
burning in furies, to arise in sulfur, while captive a thought to awaken in
Brazil: those versed ghosts, those rehearsal hips, or this skinny, delicate,
and dangerous sophistication: to sense a buried truth, where minds think for
others, this flaw while contending an exact reception: as cleaving angst, to
resist pure profanity, while, nonetheless, cursing this skewed reflection: our
mirrored minds, this Nordstrom Rack, or our travels through T.J. Maxx—where
mother becomes reality, seated at In-N-Out, tilling this remote cave: this
section of omens, this mystic insanity, or this woman too pure for reality: our
casual bones, our violet arteries, or this splice two inches from fruition:
those peaches with whip-cream, our grapes with wines, or more to angst this
garnet vision: as women peeking, to attempt sensation, while a simple gesture
becomes far too vague: our hated selves, this alibis melting, our friends as
this space to recruit admiration. I’m
more at souls, this crow and kite-string, while flourishing as something uprooted
deeply: this iffy father, this stepfather lively, and our mothers wondering
about all such fusses: this inner music, this reversed hatred, as cursed to
read while longing for charity: those green apricots, this blurry plum, or more
to friends asking questions: at tall tales, this crazy man, as one to reach
where reality is vacant: this chiseled spirit, this inner Fantasy Land, or this
remarkable Fantasy Island: if but to
exist, to have this precise understanding, where our evenings culminate in
Peace: this settee for honor, this granny for reflection, or this daughter
saying strange realities: where siblings sing, as cherished with lights, while
sisters vie for clarities: those bouncy emotions, those flying metaphysics, or
science so clear it drives anger: our bones laughing, our religiosity as
saddened, while our mystics are seconds to writing checks: this bowl of noodles,
or this woman at Whole Foods, whilst I read leafy darkness—this split essence,
this skeleton angst, or that suggestive smile.
